


Tumblr Follower Posts!

by wintersnight



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Gen, How Do I Tag, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, a little bit of smut and a lot of angst, some nsfw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2019-08-09 12:33:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16450064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersnight/pseuds/wintersnight
Summary: Four short drabs from Tumblr: Happy Halloween with Vampire!Tim (with a twist); AOB Remix Attempt, Alpha!Tim, Omega!Dick, Omega!Jason (NSFW: angst AND smut for your day); The Christening (for Anon, also NSFW); The Surgeon, The Captain, and the Soldier from the Dr!Tim universe: How Steve and Bucky met Dr. Stark.





	1. Vampire!Tim

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授翻】信任瓦解](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18417272) by [sora13319](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sora13319/pseuds/sora13319)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there was [this post](https://iphoenixrising.tumblr.com/post/179194848672/just-wanted-to-let-you-know-im-a-long-term-fan-of) and Anon was so very kind to talk to me a little bit about a Twilight au. Welp, since things like angst and such, I came up with a little something for my 600 Followers! Post. It’s not Twilight-esque because sparkling? Ah, no, but it is with my own twist, yeah?

Even though he’s pretty much stayed  _off the grid_ , Conner and Bart keep getting his damn cell phone number.

_Fuck_.

You would think someone with his hacking skills could block himself from the system in Titan’s Tower but honestly, he doesn’t (probably because it’s his last good memories of when he was  _alive_ ).

His harness vibrates again while he’s flying back, smacks into the side of the old Mylar building  _hard_ , rattling his bone, slamming the back of his head.

Red Robin shakes it off, making himself get to his feet with a growl rumbling through his chest.

“Oh come now, this is going to go nowhere.” The vampire, no more than fifty years old, is looking at his nails, waiting for the Youngling to get back to his feet. “It would be much more  _proficient_  if you would simply join our Kiss. We are…birds of a feather, if you get my meaning.”

Red spits a mouthful of blood, wipes the rest off his face as he makes it up, cracks his neck after  _that_  little tussle. “You know, first rule of being a horrible bad guy: make better  _jokes_. Yours? Just pathetic, and I’ve fought guys like The Riddler. You have no idea how  _bad_  his can get.”

One brow quirks up, the vampire smirks, flashing fang. “It would be a terrible waste to kill you, young one.”

“Well, finally something we agree on,” Red smirks back and the whiteout lenses briefly flash  _red_  before he  _moves_.

The fast and furious can’t be seen by mortals, it’s too quick for the human eye, but the arc of blood sprays over a wall, is a good enough blow to knock the baddie right the fuck down in a dirty alleyway, a tangle of limbs.

“How is this  _possible_ ,” the vampire spits out viciously, “ _how?_ ”

Red Robin uses the zip line to let himself back down to the ground (because he can’t fucking  _fly_  either, such a bummer. Seriously.), gives a flick of his gauntlet, can hear the minute  _click_  as the weapon arms.

“Plenty of theories,” he fills in, “but maybe it’s because I’m just  _that good_.”

The  _thwip_  is a smooth projectile launching from his gauntlet, hitting the mark perfectly, sinking into the dead heart with a spray of blood. The scream is like nails on a chalkboard, high-pitched as the soulless body dies and turns to ash in front of him.

From behind the whiteouts, Red Robin closes his eyes for just a moment, refuses to pray, but still hopes he’s sent the vampire to some final rest, to be reunited with his soul.

He fires the grapple and takes to the sky, tapping the comm in his ear to change frequencies, hone in on the Bats’ normal channel. He stays on mute, listens through the comm instead of extending his senses further out to hear them talking directly (and  _no_ , he doesn’t need to know where they are or any of that. It’s been long enough now that he’s probably off the “How’s that vigilante holding up nowadays” list anyway, no need to draw undue  _attention_  to himself).

He takes on some thugs near the Upper West Hills, away from the Bat’s signal, checking his wrist computer to make sure.

He makes his way to Midtown along the East River, skips over the obvious old haunts, ignores familiar outcroppings and gargoyles, perfect handholds, and the place he and Dick used to grab a hotdog mid-patrol. He ignores the low pain that isn’t his body healing from the fight, and keeps closer to the shadows.

His Perch is still buried in South Point, unassuming and off the books, is the perfect place to situate himself for the next move.

Staying in Gotham for two days is long enough, if he isn’t out by morning, O might start getting  _curious_.

“Lights, fifty percent.”

So his system can run for another hour and find him the next baddie out by Central that needs a little bit of investigating. He’s going to pack a bag, snag his skateboard, and synthesize enough fake blood to keep himself sane for at least a week. It wouldn’t take long, and he’s got his crappy Civic in the sub-basement.

Red Robin braces both hands on the computer desk, a long, unneeded sigh lifting his chest under the tunic. He shoves the cowl back and away, getting fresh air. If he could, he’d probably be sweating, feeling tremors come on from the blood loss, but just like back when he was alive, it’s just another hurdle to jump.

The air kicks on and the scent reaches him, just a hint riding on the air current, but it’s enough for him to spin, spy the twitch in the shadow.

“ _Damn_ , that was good,” Nightwing steps from behind the curtain, grinning white in the night, “long time no see, Timmy. It’s time we…catch up.”

**

Which is how he came to be back in the Bat Cave, surrounded by the usual relics.

He didn’t fight when the solid silver bolo was thrown, trussing him up, so Nightwing could call the Batmobile to take them back to the Manor. He doesn’t say anything during the drive, staring out the window while the angry vigilante fairly buzzed beside him.

(The bottle of Holy Water in Dick’s hand while they drove was more painful than he could have ever fucking  _imagined_.)

“You-you were  _turned_ , I can’t believe– when? When did this happen, Tim?! How did I miss this? It explains  _everything_ , why you wouldn’t come back to the Cave or the Manor, why you kept dodging me  _and_  the Titans? Like you would ever,  _ever_  miss an opportunity to see Bart or Kon?” Nightwing spares him a glance, but Red can’t look at him, bites down on his lower lip, ignores the sting on his still-healing injury from earlier in the night. (He knows he needs to quench his thirst. It’s taking too long to heal, he’s moving more slowly, the gnawing in the pit of his stomach getting  _louder_ , getting  _stronger_.)

The long sigh, the undertone in that voice, the obvious struggle Nightwing is having with this makes him want to flinch back, to snarl out  _what does it even fucking matter to you?_  But he locks his jaw and refuses to answer, refuses to even  _go_  there.

“I thought it was because I didn’t believe you about Bruce. That maybe you were still angry with me, maybe-maybe you didn’t believe me or something, when I said we were equals because  _you know_  I meant that–” and a sharp  _click_ is Nightwing’s jaw closing and thank  _fuck_  this conversation is  _over_.

When they hit the Cave and the hatch slides back, he stays put in the car, just  _waits_  for it, every muscle tense.

“I have Holy Water, Tim, and I’m not afraid to use it,” B is still in the cowl, his voice dark and gravelly.

“Yeah,” a sigh lifts his chest because if this is it, if he has to go out this way–

–at least he’s done  _some_  good.

(He can die like  _Robin_.)

B holds a specialty totem Tim recognizes from Constantine while scans are done and his current state of  _undead_  is pretty much confirmed.

He stays on a gurney in the Med-Bay, restrained with silver and the threat of Holy Water, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell B none of it affects him. His harness and utility belt, gloves and gauntlets, boots and cape, all of it but his undersuit removed. He even keeps his head turned to the side and eyes closed when Bruce has to confirm his heart isn’t beating, up close and personal.

( _It hurts. Being here, being an abomination, being the thing they have no choice but to take **out**. And even if he told them the truth, he’s never killed, he made the synth blood _ before _he had to take a life, that he can still hold crosses and bathe in Holy Water without a burn, even if he told them all of that, it wouldn’t matter. He hasn’t been Bruce’s Robin in a long time, and the Mission was always going to be the most important_.)

He only opens his mouth when Dick gets too close to the security traps, tells them how to disarm each without a shit-ton of volts lighting them up. His voice is hollow, echoing in the Cave, familiar and foreign at the same time.

He pretends not to notice Dami staring at him after discovering the projectiles in his gauntlet, stares at the glass case with his first suit or keeps himself entertained talking to the gathering of Bats lighting over his head

( _Would B take it out? After they put him down?_ )

It’s apparently time to have a  _conversation_  when the totem is dropped on the gurney by his leg, and B pulls a rolling stool by his bedside.

Before the Bat can even start with the questions, Red Robin beats him to the punch, “there are seven stakes left in my gauntlet. They’re coated with Holy Water and made with the Host. You should use one of those.”

(Even if his heart isn’t beating anymore, even if he doesn’t have to  _breathe_ , his chest still aches because he knows what this is going to do to Bruce later. Killing one of his former Robins, even a fucking  _vamp_ , even the sidekick he never really  _wanted_ , is going to destroy him with guilt, with  _what-ifs_. And  _fuck,_ this is why he stayed away, why he couldn’t let them see him, and now, it’s all for nothing.)

Instead of some  _I’m so disappointed, first you’re with the League with Assassins and now I find out you’re a Vampire_  spiel he’s expecting, B reaches over and wraps a big hand around his bare wrist, the touch alarmingly  _warm_.

(And it’s so  _much_  after he’s been cold for so damn  _long_.)

“I’ve been tracking you for over a year, Tim,” is softer than he imagined, makes him blink down at his restrained hands, “you’ve been fighting criminals and killing vampires.”

His fists tighten and his eyes get hot and hazy and red, filming over, his voice shaky on the, “yeah. Yeah I have been. No rest for the wicked, you know?”

“But you aren’t recently turned?” The hand on his wrist tightens minutely.

_Dammit. World’s Greatest Detective, of fucking course_.

“No. No, I’ve been…for a while.”

“You were a vampire when you brought me back out of time, weren’t you? That’s why you wouldn’t get too close, you knew I’d catch on.”

He blinks rapidly but it doesn’t do a damn thing. “Yes.”

“That’s why you refuse to join the Titans again after Damian took over as Robin.”

_‘Took over’ my ass._  “Yes.”

Dick pulls up another stool, sits on his other side. He puts a bag of Tim’s synthetic blood in his hand, and the lust rises just  _slightly_.

“This…isn’t real blood. It has synthesized red blood cells, proteins and nutrients, everything vampires get out of real human blood except for the adrenaline of the kill.”

“…Yes.”

Maybe it’s because Dick has always been handsy that he doesn’t flinch when fingers slide in his hair, nails scraping gently at his scalp.

“Timmy.”

And that old fondness, a touch after so long alone, makes his eyes get full again, and he’s got to do something, got to get  _away_.

He jerks and accidentally breaks the silver restraints, whirls to get himself off the gurney before they can even  _flinch_.

“Stop, just  _stop_ ,” his runs his forearm over his eyes, staining the sleeve red. “I’m fucking  _undead_ , get it? You should be shoving a stake through my chest right  _now_.” And just to make the point, his hisses, baring his fangs.

“This is what I am,  _this is what they made me_.” And the fake blood animating him spills over again, running down his face, and  _fuck_  this is going to hurt. This is going to hurt  _so much_. “I’m not your  _Robin_  anymore, Bruce. I’m not Dick’s little brother or Jason’s Replacement. I don’t breathe, my heart doesn’t beat, and I’m  _thirsty_  all the time. I’m a predator, I’m a killer, and you can either give me a stake  _right now_  or do it your damn self.”

Calm, cool, and collected, B’s arm comes up in an arch and Tim expects,  _fully expects_ , a specially-made Bat-a-rang to the chest, one that’s going to take him out of the game permanently.

But when the talisman from Constantine falls right into his bare hands, he’s left open-mouthed and shocked. He stares dumbly from the talisman to B and back, blinking with a whole lot of  _what now?_

Bruce stands slowly, eyes narrow and intent, “Constantine made that with a particular spell. One that harms anything living without a  _soul_. It works the best on vampires and demons.” A few steps and Bruce is looking down at him, “I’ve never seen it fail.”

“Well, obviously,” Tim replies weakly, waving the stupid thing around.

“No. You weren’t worried about the Holy Water. You’re making your own stakes without injury.  _And_ , you could have broken those restraints at any time.”

Dick is the one that breathes out, that reaches out to grip his wrists, make him turn his wet face  _up_.

“Timmy…you still have your  _soul_.”

 


	2. The Surgeon, The Captain, and the Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Captain America and the Winter Soldier met Dr.Stark from the Dr!Tim universe :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the Dr!Tim Universe: civilian!Tony, Captain America!Steve, and Winter!Bucky Barnes. Mr_Flamingo said he would read the shit out of this. Welp, there you go.

 

Dr. Stark is a busy, busy man. Even without the weight of Stark Industries on his back ( _thank-you Miss Potts_ ), he still runs from one emergency to the next.

This one just happens to be to  _The_  Captain America.

Which is so Classified even the top level brass don’t know the guy’s real name. Probably because his files have been sealed longer than most of them have been alive, which is just  _grand_. If there’s anything Dr. Stark likes, it’s a challenge.

When Nick Fury of S.H.I.E.L.D came to him because  _honestly_ , he the best surgeon they’re going to get in  _this_  half of the hemisphere anyway, Tony tried to throw him out for approximately twelve seconds–

Until the file was tossed over his desk and a picture flops out pretty much in his lap.

And that picture is of a  _beautiful_  man.

With a star on his chest.

“I don’t put Cosplayers over people with real problems, Nick.”

“Stark, when I say he’s the real deal, that’s what I motherfucking  _mean_.”

Mmhm. And he graduated from Med School yesterday. “Captain America has been dead for only seventy years, give or take. Looks spry for his age, good for him. I bet he’s Osteo’s wet dream, right?” Because he really does enjoy having witty banter with his rejections.

That’s when Nick Fury leaned over his desk, “you’re the only civilian the Black Widow has ever let work on her, and you think I’m bringing you someone in a  _costume?_ ”

Some of the incredulous is creeping out of this exchange with the way Fury’s remaining eye is focused. “Seventy years? Nick, that’s–” but when Nick hasn’t moved a muscle, hasn’t blinked, probably hasn’t so much as inhaled.

That’s when the possibility becomes reality.

“Holy shit.” Tony’s eyes blow wide and the run-of-the-mill play date in the lab to make something to help with those pesky arteriovenous malformations is right on the backburner. “You’re kidding me.”

“Would I be here if I was kidding, Stark? He is the  _real_  World War II veteran. You save his life and I will give you what we have on a certain reason he  _survived_.”

Dr. Stark stares for approximately thirty seconds, judging. The next instant he’s in his sharp coat and red shades, riding to DC in an Apache helicopter.

( _Once upon a time, he would have told the engineers how he could make it **better** , but since his Dad died, he didn’t have to build for SI anymore. He could build for his passion and not feel one fucking bit bad about it._)

Forty-five minutes and he’s scrubbing in, the situation crucial. Agent gave him the run-down without giving him any real information on  _how_  this happened. He got a glance at scans of the cranial fracture and hemorrhaging. Shards of skull had been embedded in the grey matter ( _which makes no sense how he survived this long except as another shred of proof he’s the real deal. Captain Fucking America… his inner fanboy is screaming behind his calm, cool, surgeon demeanor._ )

The team S.H.I.E.L.D gave him for the procedure are obviously all military, and in  _such_  need of a good laugh. Dr. Stark is sure they’re under order to watch every twitch of his fingers just in case he’s going to try making Captain America a drooling moron or something while poking around in his brain. So, he has to pull out the old SI CEO song and dance, being an unrepentant witty smart ass and talk fast before any of the sternly gowned agents can threaten him with horrible dismemberment if anything should happen to their delicate snowflake.

He gets the one called Barton to crack a smile while they’re scrubbing up, and it’s all going to be fine.

All is right with the world, except when he comes into the nice, sterile OR–

Where he finds the patient  _awake_.

“Hey there, big guy,” he pats the shoulder of the utterly  _stunning_ blonde (who is apparently as old as his great-grandpa and has abs for  _miles_ ), “we probably  _shouldn’t_  be meeting this way, considering you’re apparently the biggest secret in the Modern World, next to Big Foot sightings and the  _what is that gross ring around the tub really made of_  debate,  _but_  still, it’s nice to make your acquaintance. I’m Dr. Stark, and I’ll be your surgeon for the evening. Let me guess, gurney for one?”

He’s talking but checking machines, supplies, and sliding the special eyewear, taking the opportunity to review the site opened at the scalp to show the skull fracture at the side of Captain America’s head. While he watches, the skin is trying to heal around the clamps and a nurse apparently familiar with the Captain’s rate of healing is constantly re-adjusted to keep the wound open enough for surgery.

( _The impact should have killed him. How did it not kill him?_ “Time is of the essence, Dr. Stark. You need to pull the bone fragments while he can keep his skull from healing over it.”  _Christ, Agent Tight-Ass, full work-up next time for Project Super Soldier Sandwich._ )

“Hm…” slurred from behind the oxygen mask, and if Dr. Stark wasn’t one hundred percent  _invested_  on making sure he had everything he would need to fix the oddly  _not_  healing bleeder in the Captain’s temporal lobe (with things like  _Wernicke’s aphasia_ hovering in the background), he would have shuddered. “Got that reference, Doc. S’funny.”

Watching the electroencephalography to monitor the Captain’s brain activity, Tony glances over as S.H.I.E.L.D’s people start filtering in around him and the ones with guns watch him closely through the observation windows.

“Never doubted you for a second, Captain. Guy that punched Hitler should be right above a Yeti in my opinion. Anyhoo,” and Tony, gowned, gloved, and masked, comes around to look at the very, very blue eyes and hold a hand close to the Captain’s blonde eyebrows to check the dilation. “The nice esthetician over there is going to hit you up with something to make you very,  _very_  sleepy so I can fix that terrible headache you’re probably having right now.”

And Captain America looks up at him from under those lashes, quirks a small shit-eating grin, “ssorry, Doc Stark. Knockouts…won’t work on me. S’ ‘causea the Serum. Gonna be awake no matter how much they gimmie.”

Blinking with his heart in his throat because he can’t  _imagine_  the pain the Captain must be in right about now, Tony gets himself back with, “oh? Then I have your witty repartee to look forward to while I work, don’t I Captain?”

“SSteve, Doc. I’m SSteve.”

“Nice to meet you, Steve. I’m Tony, and I’m going to save your life.”

“Soundss like ya gotta plan, Tony.”

And when the slightly familiar red-headed nurse gives him the thumbs up and it’s time to start, he has to step back around to the site being kept open for him.

“I always have a plan, Steve. Fortunately for you, part of my plan involves great music and nice conversations while we discuss your vitals.”

AC/DC starts in with a little  _Back in Black_. And since he is who he  _is_ , him mouth moves on autopilot while he works with a delicate touch, fast and efficient, getting side-tracked from his running monologue with Captain Awake and Alert and Answering to accept vitals and updates from the other staff.

It’s been  _hours_ , and he’s on up-to-date knock-knock jokes.

They’ve run the gambit of must-see movies (and  _no_  he doesn’t see Agent Tight-Ass writing down the ones Steve asks about in detail because  _yes_ , he should see  _Firefly_. Alien cowboys, Captain. Alien cowboys), and spent  _so much time_  on just the 60’s.

He’s gotten some stories that are absolutely  _hilarious_  (because Steve was so curious about the most oddball shit, ATMs, Fitbits, Twitter…) and is closing the wound in Steve’s scalp before he realizes he’s…done.

“Feels so much better, Tony, thank-you.”

“Hey, glad I was in the neighborhood. You’re quite the conversationalist when I’m poking around in your brain.”

“Could say the same. Thought ya might re-wire me to do something silly. Bark like a dog when someone says  _bell_  or something.”

And the staff is cleaning up around them, giving Tony the space to ease down  _just a notch_ , and wink, “sorry Captain, something I save for the bedroom, not the operating room.”

The sparkle that lights in Steve’s eyes–

–is really his undoing.

**

Riding the high of saving Captain America’s life got him all the way home and to his bed, still churning over the events of the surgery. Butterfinger and U were happy Daddy made it home in one piece (he’d kept the failed surgical bots, unable to decommission his first attempts at independent AI just because they’d rather play fetch than learn procedures…besides, they’re  _his_  creations and with their capacity to learn, they’re still evolving), and absolutely pampered him with coffee while he told them about why he was so late.

Butterfingers booped and patted his knee lightly while U rolled back and forth in excitement. Their favorite part was about the Apache,  _of course_. His children were Philistines ( _but what would he do without them?_ ).

Waking up at one am to Agent Tight-Ass leaning against the bureau in his bedroom was probably the fright of his life.

(Probably not, but no one needs to  _know_  that. Few people knew about his kidnapping in Afghanistan from a Medical Conference five years ago.)

“The Captain won’t let another doctor examine him.” Agent Tight-Ass said without even a  _hello_ or  _the decor is nice_. “He’s asking for you.”

Tony completely blames it on sleep deprivation when he almost says  _my Captain?_  but shakes himself out of it at the last second.

The implications of Agent being here strikes him in the very next second and he’s throwing the covers off and climbing out of bed  _fast_. A clean pair of purple scrubs and Agent knows he goes commando under his expensive and stylish pj pants. “Post-Op complications?” The litany of problems Steve could be experiencing after such a difficult and delicate surgery flash through Tony’s frontal lobe, a slideshow of problems he should have been able to catch before anyone else.

( _They shouldn’t have made me leave him. He needs to be under close observation._ )

“No. But, S.H.I.E.L.D needs to verify the Captain is physically fit for duty. He won’t let another physician check him out. We’d like you to come back to DC just to make sure.”

And, well, he’s Tony  _Stark_ , so he tries to play it off in front of Agent just to be a pain in the ass to deal with, but even before he’s had a single cup of coffee, Tony is riding in another Apache with his leg bouncing in anticipation.

He’s thrown a Henley on under his scrub top, cuffs up to his elbows and probably looking like a derelict resident, but  _dammit_ , at least he has good hair.

The damn corridors are long and Agent Tight-Ass is silently striding beside him while Tony desperately holds a cup of coffee in one hand and the Captain’s chart in the other, taking in every detail and plotting out all the worst-case scenarios.  What he absolutely  _doesn’t_  expect is to see the  _gorgeous_  man in dark jeans, red t-shirt, terrible trucker hat, and a single black-gloved hand standing against the wall like he’s the only thing holding the building up. Tony manages to keep his tongue in his mouth when Agent Tight-Ass stops to introduce them.

“Sergeant Barnes, this is Dr. Stark, the Captain’s neurosurgeon.”

And those  _eyes_  are like winter, grey and cool, taking him in from dirty sneakers to the half-curl just above his temple. It’s terribly frightening and arousing at the same moment and Tony is absolutely,  _completely_  out of his depth in hot men.

( _And in-between relationships, isn’t he? Why are the Gods so damn cruel?_ )

“Very nice to meet you, Sergeant. I understand you’re an unapologetic smart-ass that can kill pretty much anything a  _mile_ away and make the worst  _borscht_  known to man. Pleasure is all mine, really.  _Borscht_  is already terrible, but making is  _worse?_  That has to take substantial talent.”

What he doesn’t expect is the tall, intimidating brunette with the sexiest stubbled jaw to blink down at him, head cocking sideways like an inquisitive cat, “s’at so?  I think the pleasure is all  _mine_ , Doll. After all, Stevie ain’t quit talkin’ ya up all night. ‘Preciate ya taking good care a’ him fer me.”

_Ah. Barnes. James Buchanan Barnes. Always thought those stories were exaggerated._

Tony absolutely does  _not_ ,  **does not**  ( _think about them together_ ), lick his bottom lip while staring up into those eyes. “Anything I can do for the red, white, and blue, Sergeant Barnes. Just showing my…patriotism.”

Tony grins wide when he gets the Sergeant to laugh out loud, ruining his intense  _I will murder you_  vibe.

“Speaking of the Captain,” Agent Tight-Ass interrupts smoothly.

Both of them give the agent waiting with a patient, pleasantly neutral expression, and when Tony looks back, he can see the tension in James Barnes, and lets himself be his usual kind of confident.

“Honestly, I’m going to take good care of him. If the slightest thing deviates from absolutely normal, you will be the  _first_  person to know.”

“Thanks, Doll. Good t’ know he’s in the best hands,” and the gloved one squeezes his bicep, right above his elbow ( _and he is completely imagining that hand has absolutely_ no give whatsoever) before he turns to where Agent is holding the door open.

The Captain is awake at this ungodly hour and apparently more chipper when he wasn’t in horrible distress from bleeding all up in his grey matter. It was really nice to see this side and observe his handiwork, amazed the staples had already worked themselves out and there wasn’t even a scar to show surgery had ever taken place.

(Steve’s hair is soft and unfairly naturally fluffy. Tony’s bare fingers are threaded in it while his thumbs press lightly over the surgical site to test the healing and be  _fucking amazed_.)

Sergeant Barnes is there for the examination, back in a corner, with that sensual  _bad boy_  thing going on, arms crossed over his chest, eyes sweeping the room every few minutes ( _like he wouldn’t notice?_ ).

And once he checks the normal vitals and signs, looks for all abnormalities, any hint of a complication, Tony Stark–

–lies through his teeth.

“You need at  _least_  a week of rest. No strenuous activity at all. No punching Nazis, jumping out of planes, or potentially dangerous anything. Watch terrible daytime TV, eat your weight in bad food, and take it easy. The possibility for complications, or of re-opening the bleed site is  _high_ , even for a Super Soldier. Normal downtime would be months, I’m giving you a week. No arguments Captain.”

He turns to look at the Sergeant over his shoulder and they exchange a nod, but he sees James Barnes rolling his lips down like he’s trying not to smile.

“A  _week?_  A whole  _week?_ ” The Captain honest-to-God  _whines_ , looking up at him, sitting up with perfect posture that makes his chest thrust out in  _such_  a distracting way.

( _Those eyes should really be illegal_.)

“Absolutely. I’m saying  _only_  a week, okay? That is very,  _very_  good news for you. From the scans taken less than an hour ago, you’re healing quickly and well. Still, we’re not going to take anything to chance.”

He grins down, completely confident he’s giving Steve the chance to get out in the world more, maybe get out from under all the Agent-Agents around here.

It’s all too soon he’s being ushered out the room and back to his Penthouse in New York, his heart thundering in his chest. The last twenty-four hours seem like some kind of  _dream_ , some kind of forbidden fantasy, something he couldn’t have really  _done_ , and being set back at his place with his bots and his lab, his nice office in Stark Medical waiting for him tomorrow, with endless calls from Pepper about the Board really wanting him present for the Quarterly Meeting this time, all of  _reality_  lays so heavy on him that he thinks maybe Agent Tight-Ass messed with his memories somehow so he’d never be able to tell anyone why S.H.I.E.L.D really wanted him in the first place.

He goes back to bed for an hour of sleep, thinking about Sergeant Barnes’ hand and Captain Roger’s eyes.

Dodging Pepper’s calls the next day between consults, residents, trips to the robotics, and some time spent in the lab, he’s in his office for a whopping fifteen minutes when his secretary knocks on his door.

“I’m sorry Dr. Stark, but they said they know you and he’s your patient–”

When Captain America and Bucky Barnes appear over her shoulder, looking a devilish mix of sheepish ( _Steve_ ) and smary as  _hell_  (of course, the crackshot), Tony wonders how much effort it would take to clear his schedule completely–

–for the next seven days.

 


	3. Reverse AOB: Alpha!Tim, Omega!Jay, Omega!Dick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alpha!Tim Drake has been out of the Bats since he lost the tunic, pretty much figured the Bat-clan didn't need a Pack Alpha after all. When Batman calls him back to Gotham for an emergency with Omega!Dick Grayson and Omega!Jason Todd, he's going to do what he has to...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some very nice Anons talked to me about the inverse of my AOB on [this post](https://iphoenixrising.tumblr.com/post/177642746852/i-love-your-fics-so-much-i-keep-rereading-them), [ this post](https://iphoenixrising.tumblr.com/post/176863897897/so-what-if-tim-did-leave-in-the-reversed-aob), [ this post](https://iphoenixrising.tumblr.com/post/176681695892/i-just-had-a-simultaneously-hilarious-and), [ and this post](https://iphoenixrising.tumblr.com/post/176677462152/have-you-thought-about-your-abo-au-if-their).
> 
> So, ah, I’m picking up where I left off with the Bat calling out to Red Robin to help N and Hood with the little problem.  
> Just a note, it’s not what I originally expected, but that’s still okay. Warnings for angst and smut.

_“Haven’t you been away long enough?”_

He could have laughed right in B’s fucking face, but well, they’d been over comms. Still, it’s telling how hard his instincts are hitting him, how fast he called in Kon to take over monitoring duty and dove into a repurposed Batplane to get his ass back to Gotham.

And because he’s Red Robin, he knows himself well enough to know he can’t think too hard about anything, even the reason he didn’t tell B to find another fucking Alpha because he’s not  **Pack**  for the Bats anymore, probably never really was ( _not chosen, remember?_ ). Honestly, it’s been long enough that he  _gets_  where his place is, has probably always been.

(The Pack is waiting for their Alpha? What a fucking  _joke_.)

And he  _knows_  how Bruce is pragmatic to a fault. To get an available Alpha to the Manor to care for Dick and Jason, since  _apparently_  bad guys are assholes and have a whole lot of weapons to affect hormones, is just something that would be the Beta’s first  _contingency_.

( _Of course he’d call you. Even when you were pretty much out of the family, you still came whenever the call went out, didn’t you? Fucking dumb ass, don’t read more into it._ )

Red Robin gives  _no shits_  about the “no suits passed the Grandfather Clock” rule when he hits the Manor for the first time in almost two years, his hackles already rising before he ever opens the door.

 _Nope_ , he sure as hell isn’t happy to be here doing this, even though it’s partly giving in to his fucking instincts to take care of Omegas in distress, but it appeases to the Alpha in him, the former Robin that remembers a time when he thought he fucking  _mattered to somebody_ , when they were all his  _Pack_ , when his sense of duty revolved around them, none of those old instincts would let him just walk away.

So before he takes the big stairs up to the hidden room on the second floor, he lays it out for Bruce, lets him know all this? Is just another part of the Mission.

His legs are longer than the last time he was here, and Red is able to take the steps two-at-a-time (he doesn’t even look at the closed door of his old room,  _Dick’s_  old room, refuses to let the ghosts of memories rise up to swallow him whole, refuses to duck from the old pain, refuses to fucking  _hide_ ). And no matter how well-sealed the hidden room is, his inner Alpha uncurls from around the base of his spine and perks up when Red hesitantly puts his old code in the keypad to unlock the door.

Welp, color  _him_  surprised when it actually opens.

**

The restraints aren’t going to hold N or Hood for long, he doesn’t need to be a detective to see  _that_.

The two older vigilantes are straining, and twisting, pulling at the wrists and ankles, bodies damp with sweat and hormone-withdraw ( _nice formula Pam. I’m going to break down the building blocks when this is all over and make sure you can’t use it ever again_.) Except for Hood’s red chilli boxers and N’s blue bikini briefs, they’re stripped to the skin, the oncoming Heat making them flush –a gentle pink on Jay and an enticing red on N– down to the chest.

The scent without the usual blockers, raw and  _au naturale_ , hits him like a freight train, almost takes the strength out of his knees when his inner Alpha lunges forward, drawn to the overpowering  _need_  less than a few feet away on the only bed in the room.

Suddenly suffocating, Red shoves a hand in his utility belt, pulls out a wet wipe to clean the scent blocker off his throat, not bothering to take off the domino.

It only takes a second or two for his natural musk to make it through the pseudo-Heat and draw the Omegas out of their own little world. He doesn’t flinch when two pairs of blue eyes snap his way, waits for how this might  _play out_.

And at one time, this used to be  _so easy_. Like taking a fucking  _breath_. He could let Dick sprawl over his lap and run his fingers through dark hair, could let his thumb rub over the scent gland, could watch as Dick’s whole body just  _relaxed_  under easy, gentle touches. Dick would curl around him and nose against his neck, oddly  _serene_  with his Alpha scent. (“ _Such a good Alpha, Timmy,” was Dick slurry and content, made him feel like he really **was**  a good Alpha to the Batfamily Pack. Too late for regrets now, isn’t it?_).

Leaving the Manor without the R, leaving the tunic behind… had pretty much taken the Bat, the  _little brother_ , right the fuck out of him, and he’d been too broken at the time to try holding on to the last vestiges of his sanity.

( _Bruce was gone and everything was fucked. Jay tried to kill him and be the next Batman, the League had their hands full and **needed** their strategist, Ra’s al Ghul had random fuckery with other bad guy groups. The Titans were getting it together again and actually wanted him back. There wasn’t time for the Alpha, only for the vigilante.)_

Playing Alpha for Cassie, Bart, and Raven had helped out in the last two years, had given his instincts  _someone_  to take care of when he needed to, but he’d always known they weren’t really his. He’d always known they probably couldn’t put their trust in him as Omegas because his first Pack hadn’t wanted him, so why would anyone  _else?_

Without looking away, letting the two Omegas take in his scent before he moves closer, Tim Drake deactivates the gloves and gauntlets, lets them fall on the floor by the door. While they watch, easing down, fall into a Bat-like stillness. The outer armor and cape follow the harness, leaving him in the body suit, giving him just a little time to observe the room, the darkness in their eyes, the sugary- _sweet_  overpowering, and with the de-arming, he starts to make  _a plan_.

Unconsciously, his chest starts to vibrate, a soft purr rolling up from deep inside, spilling out in a soothing rumble.

It reverberates through the hidden room, makes Dick’s mouth fall open and Jay relax back into the bed with eyes half-mast. The intense sweetness carrying an acrid taint that is an obvious blaring warning sign,  _Omega in Heat_ , eases down from smothering to simply overwhelming.

“T-Timmy?” And even if his voice is hoarse and dazed, Dick sounds less than  _fight_ and more coherent. “Wh-what are…where are…?”

“Looky what we got here. Pretender c’n read a fuckin’ map, Dickie,” Jason Todd slurs, “found yer way back ta Gotham, yeah?”

He stops halfway to the bed, “Bruce called me. You and Jason are in the Panic Room of Wayne Manor. Do you remember what happened?”

Dick thunks his head back and groans out, “Ivy.  _Dammit_. “

“Aw, n’ we was having such a good fight,” Jay laughs, riding the high, “then she gotta go ‘n play  _dirty_.”

He subtly slides closer to the massive bed where the two Omegas are secured, pulls the catch at the front of his suit down to the base of his throat, baring his scent gland so his scent can be a low, musky undertone, a reaction to their call.  

“The compound is causing Heat symptoms… so, that’s why I’m here.” He fills in, watching the jade flecks in Jason’s eyes become lighter the more his mind overcomes his instincts and Dick’s brow shoot up into his hairline.  Tim’s fist tightens just slightly when the lightbulb goes on and both vigilantes realize what he’s saying.

“Oh–”

“ _Fuck_.”

_Ba-dum-ching_

“That’s the size of it,” and only in the body suit and boots, eyeing the space between their bodies, which is just enough room for him to kneel between them if ( _when_ ) he could do this, “give me the name of another Alpha to see you through this before the worst of it starts, and I will personally pull a snatch and grab. If there’s no one else, then unfortunately,” and Tim’s eyes go down to the length of their bodies, of half-hard cocks through ridiculously easy to rip cotton, “you’re going to have to make do with me.”

And if anyone ever  _asks_ , he’s going to totally blame his inner Alpha male when his fist uncurls and bare fingers twitch closer, slide over the trembling muscle of Dick’s calf, sinks in to knead at a knot there. His eyes slide back up Dick’s body, coming right to his flushed face, watches those blue eyes bliss out just enough to know his scent and the purring are making an impact.

He’s easy about it when his hands slides up the inside of Dick’s leg, looking over at Jason (who is  _watching_  the progress, licking his lips, straining with less violence this time) and draws in a breath, trying to scent around the Omega hormones flooding the room.

“Fucking  _serious_ , Tim?” Jason grits out between his teeth, “gonna come alla way back ta Gotham, come  _runnin’_  ‘cause B hit ‘cha up n’ said  _what?_  ‘Getcha ass here n’ take care a’ Hood n Big Wing ‘er  _else_?!’ Izzat what’s motherfucking  _doing_  here? Just ‘cause yer a fuckin’ Alpha gonna take care a’ some helpless lil’ ‘Megas?”

And the way Jason says it hits a spot in him, calls to the Alpha lurking below the vigilante, rolls up his spine hard and  _fast_.

Tim doesn’t realize he’s moved until he blinks–

–down at Jason Todd’s surprised face.

He’s straddling those massive thighs, locking his leg under Jason’s knees to keep him pinned, is gripping him by the back of the neck, growling low and dangerous without remembering he’d even moved.

“Like I would even  _be here_  if I was just helping out Omegas?” And the Alpha in him, the broken one banished from his Pack, feels the curls of anger, the threads of pain, “like I would fucking  _bother_  if it was anyone  _other_  than you two?”

And whatever pheromones he must be putting off combined with the lack of space between them makes Jason Todd’s eyes dilate under him, makes the Red Hood’s mouth fall open, and a shudder run up his spine, literally in the palm of Tim’s hand.

“I may not your  _Pack_ ,” and Tim closes his eyes, suppresses the low noise of pain that wants to come out of his chest, forces the separation between himself and the instincts riding him to  _takefuckown_ , “and I’m not your fucking Alpha, but I’m not going to give up on you,  _either_  of you. And I’m sure as hell not going to let the two of you ride out whatever Ivy’s cobbled together.”

“Timmy,” is  _genuinely_  softly surprised, something he didn’t expect out of Jason, but the blue of those eyes get dark while Tim watches and tightens his hand ever so  _slightly_. It effectively does what he wanted, makes Jay pay  _attention_.

“Tell me who I’m going to pick-up,” he comes back softly, “or if you  _let me_ ,” he continues, his voice low and deep in his chest, “I’ll take care of you. I’ll take  _such_  good care of you, Jason.”

Under his hand, he feels the quickening of the pulse, feels how the muscle in his palm gets lax, how it’s just enough submission for him to push a little  _harder_.

“I’ll get you through this, okay?” And without really looking away, Tim turns his head ever so slightly, just enough to offer the side of his throat where his scent gland is nothing less than  _enticement_.

But, it’s an Alpha offering his services to an Omega, offering his care, his protection, his body, all of it to give the Omega what he needs, what they both really  _need_.

Jay could take him up on it and bury his face closest to the scent and accept, or he could refuse the offer and maybe try to give him another scar to worry about.

( _It makes Tim’s knees and calves tighten, his belly roll against being vulnerable like this in front of the vigilante that wanted him dead on more than one occasion, but the Alpha won’t let him turn away from the teenager he’d once followed through dirty alleyways, his hero, **his**  Robin…_)

Tim closes his eyes and  _waits_  for it.

The noise, the soft  _ping_  is the pins finally coming out of the restraints holding the Red Hood down, and massive arms are around his back, pulling him abruptly down. Their chests smack together and Jason Todd shoves his face in Tim’s neck, takes a deep, shaky breath. He pants against Tim’s jugular, fairly  _shaking_ with it.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Tim lets himself relax into the curve of Jay’s body, manages to wiggle a hand between them and pull the catch to his body suit a little lower to bare more skin for the Omega to access. His fingers and thumb start making small circles, working out the tension, listens to the low noise against his chest, the edges of whimper, an Omega in  _need_. It hits right in the base of Tim’s spine.

The thighs he has pinned start moving, Jay’s hips shifting up, right against the reinforced jock.

“Smell so fuckin’ good, Timmers,” and the scrap across his throat makes him even more  _uncomfortable_  (welp, that’s just going to have to suck for him, isn’t it? The suit stays on, but it’s a good thing he has plenty of tricks up his sleeve).

He hums and lets his other hand move down, to lightly touch bare skin. “Glad you think so. It’s not gunpowder and cigarettes, but I do what I can.”

The Omega smothers a laugh in the side of his neck, arms tightening down when Tim wiggles just enough to reach out for the restraints still on Dick’s wrists.

“Mmph, already gettin’ good. Not s’ hot now.”

“That’s a good sign. Dick? Time to check-in.” He can turn his head enough to look at Dick still laying spread out, watching them with dazed eyes, and his scent getting the wrong kind of weak.

The noise from the eldest vigilante is low and soft, a whimper, a very good indicator of  _not fine_.

Bare fingers fumble with the catch, and it’s telling how  _off_  his game he is when he can’t get the tiny buckles loose enough to free Dick. Taking to account he’s a guy that can pretty much escape just about anything the Rogue Gallery puts him in, he knows he needs to get his head on straight for this, banish the Alpha instincts back, and make a  _plan_.

His leg unlocks, freeing Hood’s in the same instance, and he maneuvers his arm around Jay’s back more securely, keeping a hold on the back of his neck. It doesn’t take much effort to hoist Jay’s upper body up with him, keep the Omega pressed securely while he gets the damn restraints loose and pulls Dick up with his free hand, clamping down on the back of his neck  _tight_ , manipulating the pressure point that would flood Dick’s system with much needed hormones.

Pressing Dick’s nose to the other side of his neck, Tim sucks in a breath and starts purring again, rocking the two Omegas in his arms with a gentle sway.

He feels Dick try to move, arm flopping around until it winds around his back with Jay’s, feels Dick press his face further into his throat where the scent is the strongest. A wet stripe over his jugular makes him tense, and his brain very carefully goes  _blank_ , refuses to compute the Pack scent marking.

(And  _no_ , this isn’t the time to think about that, about how he’d pretty much  _died_  a little inside when the scent of Pack wore away slowly each day until it was–

–gone.

Just another reminder of where his place  _really_  is and  _fuck_  does it hurt all over again.)

Instead, he takes a breath of sweet, gauges how much further he needs to push them, remembers he’s here for a reason.

“It’s okay,” and he tries to keep it soft and gentle, tries to keep the  _Alpha_  light in his tone, “I’m here, and I’ve got you. You’re both being so good for me. Such good Omegas, any Alpha would be honored to service you.”

Dick moans against his throat and Jay’s hips jerk against his thigh.

“Want to make you feel good,” he continues, turning to scent the span of Jay’s throat, moving to do the same to Dick. “Want to make you both come for me. Let me touch you, use my mouth on you, my hands.” Slowly, he eases up on their necks, lets his hands slide down shoulders and spines, bites down on his lower lip at the skin and scars available.

Even though this is so fucking  _difficult_ , his brain and rising instincts at war with it all, with being here, with being  _allowed_  to be an Alpha, with how their scent is drawing all his plans, all his old wants and needs, all the possibilities of how he could make them come as much as their bodies could  _stand_.

(But it’s still lurking. How he needs to get  _ghost_  the second they’re safe, how this can’t,  _won’t_ , mean anything other than making sure they don’t suffer or  _worse_.)

“Please, Timmy, pleaseplease _please_ ,” Dick pants out against his throat, his cheek still too warm, his body still processing the drug.

“Alla it,” Jay groan, thrusting his hips against the Alpha’s thigh, “want alla it.”

“Good, so good for me, my good Omegas,” and even as he says it, even as Jay buries his face again and Dick mouths at the other side, the words taste so fucking  _bitter_.

Shaking himself out of it, Tim uses his chest and shoulders to subtly push them back down to the bed, to nudge their underwear down over round ass cheeks that feel  _way_  too good in his hands.

And because his heart still clenches sometimes when he hears Dick’s voice, when he remembers how it  _used_  to be, he hovers over Jason’s mouth first, eyes  _dark_ , gives him a second to protest before lowering, turning, sliding softly, teasingly over that mouth.

“Alpha,” and Jay’s eyes fall half-mast, tongue darting out to lick across Tim’s lower lip.

“Open for me, Omega,” he breathes low, refusing to look away from those eyes, from the jade flecks fading away and the blue getting hazy. “Open up and give yourself to me.”

What breaks him, what breaks his rigid control over those instincts, is so simple:

it’s the needy, almost desperate noise that comes out of Jason Todd’s  _mouth_.

He gets tongue and teeth, wet and oh so  _much_. He gets Jay’s muffled moans, he gets a half-hard cock in his palm, gives a slight squeeze.

The arch into his front, a desperate hand fisting in his suit while the other uses the bed sheets, drives him to do the same to Dick, to move his free hand and push those little bikini briefs a little, to let Dick’s hard cock bob free, to fist him too and start to work them both  _slowly_.

The heady, honey, heavier scent hits his brain pan like a shot of adrenaline.

 _Slick_.

With a moan, he gives a final lick to the Omega under him and pulls off, the Alpha in him drawn to the other writhing on the bed, panting open-mouthed, helplessly gripping his wrist. After a few pumps to feel the promising  _throb_ , he slides his fingers lower, palms the span between balls and that  _heavenly_  scent. Dick’s breath catches when Tim’s fingers slide through the slick, traces the path up to rub his fingertip over that tight entrance.

“Here?” Tim asks low with dark edges, “do you want me to touch you here, Omega? Tell Alpha what you need.”

Dick’s head turns bonelessly, flops over so those eyes can show him  _all_  the good things, makes his inner Alpha purr.

“Timmy…” because it  _burns_ , how much he wants, that terrible  _drop_ when he’s taken suppressants for too long, gone too long without giving in to his body’s needs. Dick’s takes care of himself when he isn’t with an Alpha, has only been with Jay for the last year. Other Omega pheromones can help with the harder symptoms of Heat, a  _natural_  Heat, but the logical part of his brain figures out how the toxin must be working because Tim’s scent is  _addicting_ , already has Dick’a body started preparing itself, started to  _need_ , to  _crave_.

When he came out of the drug enough to realize  _who_  the Alpha was, something close to  _hope_  brought him out of the heat pooling in his blood, helped him focus, helped him fight the drug, and check to make sure his nose wasn’t lying.

The damn restraints were keeping him from reaching out, pulling their Pack Alpha into his chest to nuzzle close, cuddle until he’s got Tim’s scent  _all_  over him, lick under his chin until he gets a laugh or a sigh. He wants what they used to have, wants to get Timmy back with them so much it  _hurts_. But he gets a cold dose of reality when it’s an altogether  _different_  Tim when their Baby Bird pins Jay and pulls out a little bit of  _Alpha male_  dominance. Something he’s never  _seen_  from Robin the third before.

( _He’s full of power and strength and God he smells **amazing** …_)

He has to fight with himself not to just snatch the third Robin up and start pulling at the damn body suit so he can touch and lick and roll around in Alpha musk.

( _At least he’s rational enough to know what that might do. Tim’s been out of the Pack for so **long** , staying away with the Titans, always so busy. Dick hates himself for this, but he’s  **missed**  his partner, his friend, his little brother, and _fuck, _apparently a very prime Alpha male. The tone of Tim’s voice makes him shiver when his nose is right in Timmy’s neck, makes his inner Omega override the older brother, makes him wonder how_ **good**   _Tim’s knot is going to feel, how full and amazing it’s going to be, tenses with anticipation every time that voice drops low_.)

“Pleasepleaseplease,” because filling his arms with his missing Alpha has always been there, even when he was taking the weight of the world (not to mention a ten-year-old terror) on his shoulders, the loss, the need, the  _want_  for their Pack Alpha always weighed heavier.

It might be a  _chance_ , a way to work their missing Robin back into their lives, back into their Pack. Maybe this is the validation he needed all along, maybe since Tim is nineteen now, he needed to be welcomed back in the Pack another way. ( _This way. Touch me, kiss me, tell me I’m yours_ , or so the instincts cry out.) And watching those eyes get dark and heavy, talking so sweetly to Jay, crooning and persuasive, while a hand strayed over the inside of his thigh, traced the muscle and tendons, touched him, spread his  _scent_. It makes Dick grip into the sheets with white-knuckled fists, trying to be  _patient_  when all he needs is  _more_.

Still, he needs to  _touch_ , grips Tim’s wrist and forearm desperately, thrusts his hips up into that hand, tries not to push too hard but he’s starting to get desperate. Spreading his knees, working his hips, throwing his head back to cry out while the tension in his belly gets tighter, winds him up.

“I need,”  _you to kiss me. I need you to look at me like that and tell me I’m good, tell me I’m yours,_ “Timmy, I need more. Please, Alpha,  _please_.”

The push inside him makes a  _noise_  come from deep, is the start of something  _wonderful_. He opens up, feels even more  _wet_  every time he takes a breath.  Another hum and those long fingers slide deeper inside, start moving, thrusting, giving him some but not enough, not nearly  _enough_. Dick grabs further up, pulls the Alpha closer, mouth dropping open on a groan.

Tim is tense under his hands, shoulders drawn  _tight_ , but with the slide of those fingers, with  _moremoremorepleasemore_  in the back of his mouth, Dick leans up enough to swipe his tongue right under the younger vigilante’s chin, a sign of submission.

Something in his chest eases when Tim gives into him, moves close enough to offer his mouth–

And like he’d never lost a thing, it’s so  _easy_  to slide his fingers in the young Alpha’s hair, to bury his fingers and scratch lightly at the scalp just like he used to when Timmy had a hard night in the R and needed the big brother to have his fucking  _back_  (when they were such a close Pack, when he waited for Tim to get old enough to be their Alpha– before he left them and had to make his own way in their world). It’s a moment of bittersweet passing between them, when Tim’s eyes blow wide.

“Dick…are you sure?”

The horrible indecision and pain that strikes Tim’s expression gets through the haze settling over him, hits Dick Grayson like cold water, is something he didn’t  _expect_. It jars too many things inside the Omega and the man, the vigilante and the big brother. That expression, the way Tim suddenly looks away, how  _broken_  he looks in that moment, makes it easy for Dick to slide the other hand up, run a thumb over the curve of Tim’s jaw, pull him down, and show him how a kiss should be  _done_.

And so many old fantasies, so many old  _wants_  from his previous life rise up, stroke the fires of the Alpha instincts, come to the fore the moment Dick opens up for him and  _moans_.  He tastes sweet and minty, like the gum he chews while on patrol, makes desperate noises when the kiss deepens, when Tim’s fingers move  _higher_  and nudge the little bundle of nerves inside him.

Dick pulls back enough to yell out loud, to tighten his grip, to arch up into the touch. It’s better when Tim fucks his fingers in rapid motions against Dick’s spot, making his belly get tighter, his cock  _throb_.

“Yesyesyestheretherethere, oh my  _God_!”

When those eyes open and Dick arches again, Tim can only lay his forehead on Dick’s collar bone and let out a groan, can make the stretch happen by working in another, bites his lip when the noises border on  _obscene_  while slick leaks literally in the palm of his hand.

“That’s it, that’s  _perfect_ ,” tumbles right out of Tim’s mouth, “that’s right where I want you. So good for me, Dick. I’m going to let you come soon.”

“Feels so good, Tim,  _please_ , don’t stop,” is a sob, a whine, is hips rolling into his thrusts, is Dick rising up enough to kiss him again.

This time, the Alpha gives as much as he  _takes_ , owning Dick’s mouth, licking into him while he gives Jay’s hard cock a few final pumps.

He keeps Dick on  _edge_  for it, coming in to nip and lick at his mouth, pulling away with hard thrusts against his  _spot_ , work the ( _his_ ) Omega up to it.

“All right, sweetheart, need you closer,” Tim noses Dick’s face to the side and licks a stripe over the tender spot below his scent gland. He sucks lightly without teeth, not trying to jar Dick out of the perfect headspace.

He slides his other hand off Jay’s hard cock, splaying his fingers over the fine trembling muscles of those absurdly  _beautiful_  thighs, patting gently to rouse Jason from the haze of arousal.

“Alpha?” Slurred and low, vibrating from the ( ** _his_** _…_ ) Omega’s chest.

“You’re doing so well for me, sweetheart, so beautiful like this,” his voice low and encouraging, he nudges one hip over. “But I need you to come here, okay?”

The Red Hood throws his forearm over his eyes, peeks out at the Alpha kneeling over Dick with heat in his eyes and knowing  _smirk_.

“What ‘cha gonna make me do, Alpha?” And even though he’s hard as a rock, probably give an  _appendage_  ta get fucked right now, Jay’s an Omega what  _knows_  the kinda shit an Alpha can do ta ya. Has all  _kinds_  of reasons to hold back, yeah?

He watches close, tryin’ ta see if Timmy’s eyes get…a special kind of  _angry_  when he’s being questioned, being  _denied_.

“I want to do everything you need,” is the ernest reply, “but most of all, I want you to lay on top of Dick, open up for me, and let me eat you until you come. I want to lick up your slick and suck it out of you,” when Jay’s arm flops away, his eyes wide, his cock bouncing with  _interest_. “I want to make you feel so  _good_  when you finally let go, but I  _need_  you closer,” and Timmy’s eyes go so unusually  _soft_ , his cheeks a gentle pink. He raises up off Dick, still in the body suit, the reinforced jock fooling  _no one_. He holds out his free hand, an offering.

“Let me be your Alpha. Just until the drug runs it course and both of you are safe,” Tim promises, low and enticing, “I’ll take care of you, Jay, I promise.”

And  _fuck_  if it don’t get to him, right down in some hidden niche the Red Hood never knew he  _had_. For the first time than he can remember, he really want to  _believe_. For all the Alphas that used him, hurt him, it was just his  _luck_  he stumbles into the best of the bunch when he’s riding the Pit and trying to slit the kid’s throat.

So it might be good, them ending up  _here_ , trying to ease some of those old hurts, the old mistakes, start  _over_  and do it right this time. And that helps Jason Todd reach out and accept the Alpha’s hand, be pulled to his knees and dip down so the shorter Alpha can manhandle him, lick over his mouth, asking for permission before taking, can start out slow if that’s what Jay needs. The tension seems to leave Jason’s shoulders as he ducks back down under the haze of the combination drugs, instincts, Alpha, and the other aroused Omega. He lets Timmy maneuver him to lay over Dick’s front with their legs entangled and spread like their Alpha wanted them.

The next three hours are a lesson in how many times he can come without being fucked and knotted.

When the two Omegas finally give up the ghost, are gloriously passed out, naked and sated, and sleeping softly, gently, exhausted after more orgasm than should even be  _possible_.

( _Robin with **plans** , remember?_)

Tim’s covered in slick and come, his face wet down the chest area of his suit, hands to the forearms, liberally covered in the scent of Omega  _pleasure._

(He doesn’t have access to equipment or a lab, just his usual tech and an email to B while the tub in the adjoining bathroom fills with warm, lightly scented water.jHe takes a blood sample from each while they’re passed out.)

Jay is too tall for the princess hold, so a fireman’s carry across his shoulders. He wrangles himself out of his suit, ignoring the ache in his pointed erection, and slides in behind Jay with a soft cloth and lightly scented shower gel, gently maneuver the bigger vigilante to wash him and nudge idly at his cheek. He has a cold bottle of water ready when the dazed Omega sighs deeply and sinks back against him, nosing into his throat, wet back across his chest, and accepts the water.

When it’s Dick’s turn and Jay is dry and clean, wrapped up in a blanket, the eldest Robin octopus holds him even when he’s partially  _out_  of it, making Tim wrangle his arms free to get him in the tub and try to keep his hard cock from nuding the small of the eldest Robin’s back.

He gets Dick to drink some water, holds his previous mentor and best friend on his lap, purrs gently.

He very,  _very_  carefully doesn’t think about how this is going to come back and bite him in the ass later how, how they’re going to want him gone more than they do now, how this is going to be the other foot  _out_  of Gotham. He holds Dick in his lap, takes the nuzzles to his throat, dries him off with soft towels, tucks him in beside Jay to sleep off the pseudo-Heat.

He very carefully doesn’t think about how things could go wrong when he puts on the extra body suit stashed in the lining of his cape, slides the blood samples through the door at B, and sits on the couch while the two Omegas sleep it off.

( _And, God how Jay moaned his name the fourth time he came, right down Tim’s throat, how Dick’s slick gushed in his mouth the very next time…_ )

They don’t stir when his phone chirps and it looks like they’re all in the  _clear_. The scents fade in the room when the air kicks in again, and gets a fresh hint, is fucking  _relieved_  (and terribly disappointed) when they’re both only the usual amount of sweet without scent blockers.

He disappears into the bathroom to finish suiting up while Alfred and B check the covered, sleeping Omegas, and call their vitals are stable.

He tries to be absolutely  _not awkward at all_  when he comes out as Red Robin, already heading to the door with himself perfectly  _together_.

(The inner Alpha slinks back to the shadowy corner of his brain pan, disappointed but unsurprised, accustomed to walking away.)

“Tim,” because Bruce is closer than he should be, reaches for an elbow to stop him in his tracks. “You really don’t have to go.”

He doesn’t flinch, but it’s a  _close thing_. He firmly, gently pulls away, arm sliding out of his old Pack Leader’s hold, giving both of them his back, “it’s better for everyone this way,” and he can’t turn around, can’t look at the expression on B’s face.

“I don’t believe that, Tim. And I don’t want to think  _you_  believe that either.”

Instead of getting  _angry_ , instead of fighting, instead of calling some  _bullshit_ , some of the strength goes out of his shoulders and chest, “You called, and I came back. I said I would always come back, and I meant it. That’s all this was, Bruce. You needed an Alpha that won’t give away any secrets, so here I am.”

And walking out of that room, down the familiar winding staircase, thumbing the beacon on his phone, he’s completely not red in the face under the cowl, not wiping anything away when Kid Flash makes the scene and scoops him up to take off again.

And he sure as hell doesn’t think about it later, when he’s trying to sleep (but one of his suit still smells like aroused Omega and  _home_ ).

He doesn’t think about them when he finishes himself off after enough tossing and turning, when he grips the knot at the base of his cock.

But he does wonder how good it would feel–

If it was Dick’s hand instead of his own.

 


	4. Anon Ask: Christening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After B rebuilt the Red Bird for Tim to have a sweet ride in Gotham, he decides to take his vigilante significant others on the Maiden Voyage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon said: I saw your Jaytim batmobile reply post and Robin's Redemption so I raise you, Tim 'christening' the Redbird with Dick and Jay.  
> **  
> Not only YES, babe, but I raise you double-penetration XD. Plus, I just love Red Bird porn, so there's that too.

 

When Dick uncovered it in Timmy’s garage, his mouth fell open in shock, and his heart a puddle of nostalgia.

Jay is right on that train, and they absolutely  _demand_  Red give them a ride for patrol tonight in Gotham.

N is riding shotty with Hood laying his legs across the backseat (since they’re a  _mile_  long and would never fit behind either of their seats).

The night had been a flop until they hit a good case off the Midtown Bypass, and it was a good fight with a  _whole_  lot of bad guys they’d been chasing down recently. They took drugs and douchebags off the streets, took a few hits, and rode the  _you-did-good-tonight_  from B all the way out of Gotham.

They told B they were going to make a stop by the Cave before dawn and pick-up notes on the next undercover B has ready for them.

They’re in the sticks between the hidden road to the bluffs below Wayne Manor, nothing but forest and nature, when N reaches over in the shadows and slides his gloved fingers over Red’s thigh and grips the inside.

His heart giving an anticipatory pitter-patter, Red Robin’s eyes slide to the side, see N’s got the whiteouts up and his eyes are a little darker than normal in the night. His breath catches when the grin splits Dick’s face wide and white, and a hand from the back has made its way through the space between the door and the seat, another gloved hand palming his hip above the utility belt.

“So…” he’s just a little breathless with both their hands on him, even through the suit, “are you trying to say it’s time to pull over?”

**

The great thing about the redesign?  The hatch can slide back just the Batmobile, which means getting out of his suit and gear isn’t  _nearly_  as much of a pain in the ass as it could have been. Point to B, not that he’ll ever have to know why.

Still, it doesn’t mean he’s permitted to even get out of his suit before Hood and Nightwing are  _on_  him.

And  _apparently_  they had time to study all the nifty features B built in his sweet ride because the passenger seat clicks to the side and the console literally fits down into the base of the car somewhere.

Hood is on him from the back, already taking the deactivated harness out of his hand at the same time he shoves his tongue past Red’s lips, kissing him with biting, sensual  _desperation_  while he’s shrugging his jacket off his shoulders and putting the holsters down next.

Nightwing shoves gloves and gauntlets to the floor board and takes off his utility belt. In tandem, the older vigilantes turn him, find catches, have the tunic off him in a hot minute.

Red manages to paw at the zipper and almost rip the Nightwing suit halfway down Dick’s chest while losing himself in Jay’s mouth, pulling that catch with the other.

How he ends up with his legs around Dick’s hips and the backrest of his seat clicked to the side (so he can mouth at Jay’s bare torso and wiggle his hand inside the body suit to palm that mouth-watering  _cock_ ) is really just the mechanics of his brain and how much his boyfriends  _love_  having sex in the most precarious spots.

Especially when there was a potential to get  _caught_.

Still, he’s never been more grateful in his  _life_  that Dick has a few packets of lube stashed in his suit before the blue and black is worked down to his knees and Dick sighs as his cock flops free, hard and leaking and  _fuck, yes please_.

Tim gets to wrap his other free hand around the base and work his hips the best he can with his suit and boots restricting him at the ankles.

Jay gets his own suit down enough to toss the armored jock and shove his boxers down so Tim can make a noise before he starts mouthing at the shaft.

Jay’s gives him a “fuck yeah, Baby Bird, lookit how  **hard**  I am fa’ ya,” and taps the tip right against his cheek.

Without looking away, his tongue lapping above Jay’s fist, he takes one of the packets from his stomach where Dick left them, has to arch his back for balance so he can use both hand to open it, ready to slick up so he could start working a finger in himself, get himself all  _kinds_  of ready.

“ _Fuck no_ ,” Jay snarls, snatching the packet out of his hand, “yer gonna  _Gimmie. That. Ass_ , Timmy.  Oh yeah ya are, you feel me?”

Dick absolutely pulls him from sucking at the base of Jay’s bare cock to shoves their mouths together, muffling his whine, eating at him, sucking at his tongue, walking his hands right up Tim’s chest to thumb his nipples and make his thighs twitch with the abrupt, sharp pleasure spiking in his brain pan.

Jay reaches between them to pull his cock, a few warm, tight strokes, then switched to Dick, hand getting more  _wet_  with them.

Dick moans in his mouth, pulls of him with a “ _fuck_!” and turns literally an inch to retaliate and lick right around the head of Jay’s cock before taking the tip in his mouth to suck.

The deep groan from above them is just  _perfect_.

“Nu-hu,” Jay grits out even as he’s palming the back of Dickie’s head and giving him a little  _more_ , “I’m gonna  _eat_  that ass like it’s Sunday motherfucking Dinner, Baby Bird, and you’s two are gonna move it right here s’ I can get at Dick’s ass too, yeah? Gonna be my  _good_  boys ain’t cha?”

The grip changes back to his cock, making Tim jerk with his ankles still trapped and thigh around Dick’s hips.

“I would really,  _really_  like,” he pants out on a groan, a plan clicking into place, but it gives him an opportunity to nudge his head below Dick’s and lick out at the vein on the underside of Jay’s cock, “if we could maybe do both of you in me at the same time? I mean,  _fuck_  that would be amazing.”

Dick’s eyes shoot open, and without pause, Jay still thrusting in his mouth at lazy roll, quirks a brow in a way that is decidedly  _naughty_. With his mouth full, he can’t celebrate properly, but can shove his hips harder into their smaller boyfriend.

Jay, however, does the talking for both of them.

“Yeah, Baby Boy, I feel that, too. How fucking  _good_  we’re gonna fill up Timmy’s sweet ass. Our lil’ Birdie gonna believe in  _heaven_  after we fuck ‘em out.”

And Jay pulls all the way out of Dick’s mouth, the panting eldest Robin giving a final lick.

“We gotta get you nice and ready, Timmy,  _fuck_ , you’re going to feel  _amazing_ ,” and the half-hoarse quality to his voice makes Tim’s cock fucking  _throb_.

His boyfriends don’t even bother getting his boots off, preferring to keep his legs a little  _restrained_. It gives them all the excuse to lift and manhandle him into whatever crazy position they get into next.

The passenger seat is clicked back, the head rest shoved forward, so they can lay him over it for Jay to eat him out after all. He changes it up to suck Dick instead, stuffing his mouth around the half screams because  _really_ , they’re out in the middle of the  _woods_.

(And  _no_ , he’s not going to be thinking about Dick sitting bare-ass on his dash the next time he’s in a high-speed chase.  _Nope_. _Not at all._ )

But even he can’t tone it down when Jay’s got three fingers deep and adds a fourth, making him choke on Dick’s cock, his back arching, rearing up to call out, and shove his hips back.

“Please please please I’m ready, I’m ready,” he chants while Jay fucks his fingers in  _deep_ , plays with his spot, makes him almost  _sob_.

Dick slides up on the dashboard, directs his cock back in Tim’s mouth to shut him up, “not quite  _yet_ , Baby Bird. We’re,  _oh, that feels amazing_ , not ready. We’ve got to make sure you’re nice and open if you’re going to take both of us.”

Tim closes his eyes, fights not to  _whine_  with how  _hot_  Dick makes it sounds, just shoves himself further down, chokes himself and still keeps  _going_.

“Oh fuck, oh  **fuck**! Timmy!!” And just like he wants, Dick’s thighs tremble, his hips jolting into Tim’s face, shoves himself in the last inch in so the youngest of them is taking him all the way  _down_.

Dick is moaning without stopping, framing Tim’s face and shifting minutely to fuck the tightness of his throat.

“Jesus  _fuck_ , Big Wing, Baby Bird tryin’ ta suck yer will ta  _live_  out through yer cock?”

With the jarring smack to Timmy’s ass, Dickie pulls out and helps Jay manhandle their smaller boyfriend, moving the seat so Dick can have Tim’s legs around his hips while Jay moves the back rest out of the fucking way and threads his legs through Dick’s, helps hold their sex-haired Red Robin sandwiched him between him. The elders Robins suck and lick and mouth at him from front and back, lift him up together so they can rub the tips against his wet, stretched entrance.

Between their mouths chasing his, Tim begs and pleads and threatens, wiggles his hips down, tries to get them at least  _started_ , holds on to the back of Jay’s neck and reaches to pump Dick’s wet cock.

He’s the one that lubes them both up, wraps his palms around them, moans out when Jay bites his jugular and Dick shoves his tongue in for a taste.

And since Nightwing and the Red Hood have their own type of secret language, it’s only a flicker of eyebrows before they’re in agreement, and, together, start lower him slowly.

Jay arches his hips up to breach Timmy first, being easy when he starts sliding in, moaning with how fucking  _good_  Baby Bird feels around him. He’s halfway in, Timmy’s head thrown back over his shoulder when Dickie’s nudging right beside him, trying to be so fucking  _careful_ , trying to make sure they don’t hurt their bird.

Tim goes tense between them when the stretch hits an  _all time high_. His back arches unconsciously, biting down on his lip hard enough to bleed. Even if he keeps his head back on Jay’s shoulder, turns a little so it isn’t so  _obvious_ , Dick still stops not even halfway in, eyes darting over.

“Timmy,” Dick stays still,  _so still_ , and it’s so difficult when he’s shaking, when it’s all so fucking  _good_.

“Check in, Sweets,” Jay nudges against his throat.

“F-Full…I just-need a minute,” but Jay turns his face so they can see it, so Dick can thumb the blood away and give him gentle kisses. A hand slides down his chest, thumbs idly at the nubs, makes circles, pinches lightly while another hand moves over his thigh, palms the base of his half-hard cock, makes him moan against Dick’s mouth.

They work him back up just  _that fast_ , shifting minutely, Jay sucking on his jugular, growing into his  _skin_ , and Dick gives him just an edge of teeth on his collar bone while the night sounds around them, and he just really needs to be able to at least  _walk_  when this is all said and done. When he’s finally ready, panting and gripping them helplessly, he tightens his thighs around Dick’s hips, grips Jay’s ass and uses his knees to rise up on them, and slowly sink back  _down_  with these stupidly high-pitched  _noises_.

Jay and Dick finally take some pity and move with him, moan and curse with each roll of hip, drowning in so much available  _skin_.

And they come apart together while the rhythms is drives on, when mouths are taken, and it’s so  _hot_  to watch Jay mouthfuck Dick over his shoulder, has to bite down on  _something_  when they’re absolutely  _killing_  him. But all he gets are noises in his mouth and against his skin, hands all over his body, taking him  _higher_ , mapping out scars and sensitive spots, owning his body, making him  _theirs_  over and over.

“Fuck,  _fuck_ ,” a bat screeches above them, but Tim’s cock is  _throbbing_  for release.

“Not yet,” Jay pants against the back of his neck, “jus’ a lil’  _more_ , Sweets.”

He feels like sobbing in reply, feels like they might just  _break_  him.

Instead, it takes true acrobatic talent and vigilante flexibility to move the three of them to the backseat where Jay lies back and Dick is between both their legs. Muscles bunch under his back, and Jay’s thighs hold his open, thrusts up into him in tandem with Dick.

The two of them can move deeper and  _harder_  like this, Dick’s hands gripping his hips, Jay’s long arms wrapped around him, holding him still to just  _take_.

He’s so far gone, his cock so  _hard_ , his body open, all he can do is lay in their grip and let them work him  _faster_ , give him  _more_.

(His brain pan spits out it’s more than he can take, it’s  _toomuchtoomuchmoremoremore_.)

His eyes are wet with the pleasurable/painful edge, crying out in Dick’s mouth or into Jay’s palm when he’s getting just  _this side_  of too loud (because B has things like  _cameras_  in the woods and they are already  _very_  late).

“Fuck, Baby,  _fuck_ ,” Jay snarls against his neck, damp with sweat and the effort to hold  _back_ , “gonna come soon, fill ya up right  _nice_ , ain’t we, Dickie?”

Without stopping, Dick threads fingers in his hair, pulls just enough to set off sparks of pain down his spine, pulsing through his cock and ass, earning another noise for them, his body getting  _tighter_  while they’re giving him the fucking  _of his life_.

Dick kisses him hard and  _dirty_ , shoving his tongue in, nudging his knees just  _that much_  closer to get in as deep as he possibly can.

“He’s getting so  _tight_ , Jay, I can’t take much more.”

And like they planned it, both vigilantes draw their hips back, give him a full second to breathe–

–and fuck back into him, all the way to the  _hilt_.

They shift, Jay in and Dick out, working him in a whole different kind of tandem, changing it  _up_  while he writhes helplessly between them, eyes spilling over, hand trying to wiggle between his chest and Dick’s so he can  _at least_  jerk himself off.

But Jay uses his knees to fuck up with a punishing thrust against his spot that leaves him  _screaming._

“Come on our cocks, or not at all,” Dick growls and shoves his thighs  _up_ against his chest, opens him up so wide.

“Y-You’re killing me!  _Fuck, let me come!”_

Even if he’s mindblown beyond recognition, he still sees the wink Dick directs over his shoulder and has a brief moment of  _clarity_.

Because the teasing is apparently  _done_.

Two sets of hands cover his hips and ass, hoisting him up just another  _inch_.

“Perfect,” Dick purrs just before he fucks back in  _viciously_.

The final round has him fighting against the overwhelming pleasure every time they pound back inside him, hit the deepest part of his body, fuck him like there’s  _no_  tomorrow. It’s animalistic and ferocious, it’s two seasoned, dangerous men taking their pleasure from him without pause, without mercy. He’s going to be bruised tomorrow in the  _best_  of ways–

–if they don’t, in fact, kill him.

He finally,  _finally_  gets his reprieve when Dick wraps a hand around his cock and pumps him in time with their thrusts, earning them a scream Jay has to muffle with his hand.

Tim clings to the Red Hood’s forearm, eyes rolling back, pinned when the dam finally  _breaks_. Jay’s hips stutter, the body under him arching, the chest vibrating when he comes, panting out, “ _Fuck_ , Baby, take it,  _take it_ ,” and fucks against Dick’s cock to wring the last of his orgasm.

When Jay gives  _in_ , Dick moans, the sensitive head of his cock covered with Jay’s come, and he gives a few hard pumps to get Tim bucking up into his hand, thrashing and throbbing and  _oh so ready_.

“That’s it, Timmy, that’s it. Come for us. Just let go and  _come_ ,” those blue eyes riding the edges of bliss, twists his wrist, jerking Tim’s sensitive head, gives a few hard, rapid thrusts to drive the youngest  _over_.

Tim screams behind Jay’s hand, body locking down on them, getting so  _tight_ , already so _wet_  with Jay’s come, and the tense, tight pressure in his abdomen  _explodes_. Dick is staring him down, moaning when come splashes over their chests and abdomen, works him roughly down from his high and shoves his hips forward, buries himself to  _hilt_  and adds his release to Jay’s.

The three of them lay on his back seat, whines and whimpers, and post-orgasmic high taking the strength out of bodies hardened by the cape and cowl life. Twitching thighs and shifting hips, the slow, wet drag as Dick pulls out of him first and Jay eases out next, making a complete mess of his back seat.

It’s not comfortable manhandling him around in the car, but he has just a little time to float, laying on top Jay with his cape thrown over their bare bodies while Dick makes it a literal magic trick when he wiggling back in to the Nightwing suit.

Jay rubs a hand down his back under his cape, and puts a comm in his ear. He hits up B with a little  _sorry, took too long, see ya tamarrow, yeah?_  while Dick fixes the driver’s seat and the hatch slides back over them, cutting them off from the night. He has to adjust the seat to take his longer legs into account, but fires the engine and turns right around to head back into Gotham proper.

Tim is fucked out enough that he doesn’t remember the ride back to his underground parking garage, but the hatch slides back again and Dick is leaning over to manhandle him off of Jay’s chest, wrapping his cape around his bare body while Jay shrugs back into the Red Hood bodysuit. He gets carried up the stairs while he noses against Dick’s neck and just  _sighs_.

A hot bath helps the mess they’ve made of his ass, the coffee he gets and super warm cuddle session on the couch are really part of the reason he keeps these two around.

But the next time the world of bad guys has gotten  _real_ , when it’s live or die, fly by night, stand the fuck up and  _fight_ , he’s going to take the Red Bird–

And hand out justice with a  _smile_ on his face.

 


	5. Broken Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ve always wondered if you really are faster than a speeding bullet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the 700 Follower Post!
> 
>  _Warning_ : For babes not familiar with _No Home for Dead Birds_ or _Fracture_ : I write a scene in which Tim literally has a gun to head. This is not lighthearted angst, please be warned if you read this.

  


  


At one time, his colors had been red, gold, and green.

At one time, he’d been part of something  _bigger_ , something  _important_. A legacy.

At one time, he’d been able to fly without being afraid of falling.

Being Robin had been the epitome. Even with all the terrible things he’d endured, all the injuries, all the catastrophes, all the insane megalomaniacal baddies breathing down his neck, he wouldn’t have traded the tunic for anything in the world.

( _Dick had known it, had known how painful it was for Tim give it up once his Dad found out.)_

He would have died with the  _R_  on his chest and never had a single regret.

Realistically, he couldn’t have been Robin forever, and he’d known that someday he would have to give it up and either move on with his life as a regular person, or take on another name, another  _mask_ , to keep fighting the good fight.

He hadn’t expected Dick would take it without a  _thank-you_  or  _fuck you_  to mark the end. That hadn’t been in the plan.

But it’s  _fine_  because Dick was the first and Robin had been his anyway, right?

Right.

 _Wrong_.

Staring down the .45 in hand, the gun his father hadn’t had the chance to use to save his own life, Tim Drake wonders how it all came down to this.

( _Last one left standing. Of fucking course_.)

How it had all come out so badly, how he could barely step foot back in Gotham, how he had to avoid the Manor, the Carriage House, his own family home. How he couldn’t pick up the phone or answer texts coming from his former team. How he could barely keep himself the  _fuck together_  now that Bruce was back. How his hands would start to shake when the Manor phone number popped up ( _Alfred_ ). How his mind’s eye would go back to Dick at the Big Computer in the Batsuit, telling him they were still  _equals_. How he would imagine what would happen if he hadn’t caught himself when that zip line was cut. How he would sit in his safe house, off the Bat radar, and mourn the times when he was actually–

( _happy_ )

–part of a family.

The pictures from an old Vans shoebox, the ones he’d taken back when he’d had the run of Gotham, following Batman and Robin ( _Jason_ ), are burning in the kitchen sink. He watches Nightwing’s blurry face melt away and pretends there aren’t tears in his eyes.

The old memorabilia from Haley’s Circus is in a storage unit outside the city, along with a box that has his last Robin suit.

The lawyer has strict instructions to deliver the key and a letter to his former adopted father, Bruce Wayne, upon news of his death so anything incriminating can be properly disposed.

( _They wouldn’t need any of it anyway. They could just shred all of it and wash their hands of him. The Robin that never should have been._ )

A map with all his safe houses would be send to Conner Kent, along with a letter of apology.

His favorite nerd shirts would go to Ives.

The sundries in his Perch would be for Steph, and the penthouse itself would go to Babs in case things in the theatre went sideways.

Bart would get a zip drive with all their old shenanigans on video, the only copies left once his systems uploaded relevant data to Titan’s Tower and his electronic footprint would be–

 _gone_.

The box with the Red Robin costume he wore was already sealed and addressed to Jason Todd. The note on top was short and sweet:  _You were right. It never should have been me after all._

He’d already arranged for his share in Wayne Enterprises to be returned to Bruce Wayne immediately, handing him his family’s company back without any strings attached.

Months ago, he’d returned The Red Bird to the Cave when he was sure no one would be around to catch him. The implication that Robin would need the car one day right there in the fact he’d brought it back because honestly, it was never really  _his_  in the first place.

Alfred would get his pick of antiques from Drake Manor, and the house itself would be given to the city to be used as a halfway home for runaway teens. He’d made sure the funding would be there to run it for a few years. The donation was made in his mother’s name.

The hilt molds to his palm, the barrel glinting bright in the night. To his credit, his hands aren’t shaky when he slides the clip home and pulls the slide back to put one in the chamber.

( _The team had been working fine without him for a while now. Even if they did need someone, there was another Robin to join the roster and keep them moving forward._ )

An abrupt light in the darkness, his phone screen lighting up with a missed call notification.

_Missed call: Dick the OG_

Ironic since the last time he’d come this far, it had been him calling out to the last person he thought could pull him back.

( _Not this time. He has a new little brother, a new Robin._ )

Slowly, without putting down the .45, he presses the  _ignore_  when the phone starts buzzing against with another incoming call. He thumbs the button on the side to turn the phone completely off without listening to the voicemail.

The clip makes a difference, but the absurdity of it, of the last time he did this, was when his future self was a murdering, gun-toting Batman, and the only way he could see to stop it was to stop himself.

The press of the barrel is familiar, and not in that  _soothing_  kind of way.

He blinks, just  _blinks_ , and his face is wet, which is really stupid because no one is going to miss him any damn way.

His chest gets tight when he fingers the trigger guard, giving himself the time he needs to do it  _right_. In the final moments, he inanely thinks about the time he was huddled against Dick, right after he’d almost tried cloning his dead best friends in an insane attempt to bring them back. It’s really the last time he remembers being  _held_ , being warm, feeling like he still fucking  _mattered_. It was Dick holding him tight with restraining, breathing against the top of his head, fingers buried in his hair.

It’s when he could be weak while still in the mask, babbling to Dick about how he can’t do this, he can’t  _lose_  them all. He was crying then, too, when he told Dick about his mom and dad leaving, leaving, always fucking  _leaving_. About how he got used to seeing their backs more than their faces. How he was left standing on his own for too damn  _long_  to just let it keep happening. He couldn’t keep losing them, couldn’t keep seeing people walk away, how it fucking  _breaks him_.

And in the here and now, his chest hitches, eyes fluttering, hand tightening  _down_ because he’d said…and Dick had…

 _“But_ **_I’m_ ** _here, Timmy. I’m always going to be your big brother!”_

It had been the last time he’d been surrounded by the famed  _octopus hold_.

( _It was the last time for a lot of things._ )

_He laughed, smothered in Dick shoulder, something further away from a sob. “Then I guess you’ll at least never leave me, right?”_

_“You will never be able to get rid of me. C'mon. We’re going the hell home and having a movie day. Screw the Lazarus Pit, Robin. It’s time for some R and R.”_

_Dick had half-carried him to the waiting Batplane and talked him down out of trying to use the Pit for his own gain ever again._

The first knuckle rests on the smooth curve, a six-pound trigger.

( _In the end, they all leave._ )

( _Not again_.)

Conner’s terrible mohawk and leather jacket.

Bart racing Wally at a hotdog eating competition.

Cassie running full tilt to throw herself at him when he’d come to Titan’s Tower to ask them for help when Ra’s was going to kill everyone Batman ever loved.

Raven nuzzling Gar out of plain sight so no one would think she was totally  _gone_  for him.

Jason coming to the Tower,  _alive good God_ , and the Robin he used to be super-imposed to be his hero and enemy in the same ghostly figure.

Bruce putting a hand on his shoulder on a ride back to the Cave, chasing the dawn, the  _Good work, tonight_  tired but sincere, and his whole body lights up.

His mother looking at peace in her coffin, a lily in her folded hands.

His eyes close on the out-of-the-way safe house, the plain beige walls, stripped and soulless. He keeps the team in his mind, the times he was  _happy_.

 _Now_.

Instead of a resounding  _boom_  followed by his grey matter splattering his personality, intelligence, imagination,  _him_  all over–

the wall to the safe house caves in under a  _super punch_.

Conner is white as a sheet on the other side, brick and mortar crumbling under his hands. “ ** _No!_** Tim.  ** _Tim_** **.**  Put. The. Gun. Down.”

His mouth is dry and his brain pan full of nothing but  _pain_  and  _disappointment._

( _But you brought it all on yourself, didn’t you? The Robin nobody wanted. The son nobody_ ** _asked_** _for._ )

He isn’t numb enough to be calm, cool, and collected. “All…all you have to do–” a hitch in his breathing “–is walk away.”

The meta floats in a little closer, hovering over the flooring instead of outside. His hands stretch out, gaze focused and intense.

“Can’t do that, buddy. Looks like I should have been more of an asshole after all the League of Assassins shenanigans. Sorry, my bad.”

Kon knows he’s in trouble when Tim Drake doesn’t laugh.

“Tim,” he goes to serious in about two point five seconds because the hand holding that shiny automatic tightens enough for him to hear the screws in the hilt strain, “ _Tim_. It’s  _me_  here, okay? It’s just you and me, just like it’s always been. We’re besties, whether you’re Robin or Red Robin or Tim fucking Drake because  _that guy_  is so damn cool.” He inches closer, wondering if he’s fast enough, wondering if he can really get to Tim in  _time_ –

Like the former Robin can read his mind, those violet-blue eye give him a blink.

“I’ve always wondered if you really are faster than a speeding bullet.”

“ _No!_ ”

(…as it turns out, he isn’t.)

 


End file.
